You've Lost That Loving Feeling
by WiredAndImTired
Summary: Logan Mitchell is a smooth talking, hard-working, successful sports agent who suddenly loses his job, but with that, he ends up finding the girl of his dreams. *Take-off on the movie Jerry Maguire*


You've Lost That Loving Feeling

Chapter: 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own ****anything**

Alright so there's the world. There are ten billion people on it. When I was a kid there were five. It's hard to keep up.

Then there's America. See, America still sets the tone for the world...

I'm Logan Mitchell. Now I'm the guy you don't usually see. I'm the one behind the scenes. I'm the sports agent.

In Odessa, Texas, there's the great Frank Cushman. Cush is 20. Quarterback, role model, my client. He'll probably go number one in the draft this year.

There's genius everywhere, but until they turn pro, it's like popcorn in the pan. Some pop, but some don't.

I walk briskly and smoothly, yellow legal tablet in hand, at SMI in the lobby, filled with Athletes and Sports Team Owners. Herb Alpert's instrumental, "The Lonely Bull" is playing over the speakers.

I sit in a red leather chair, across from an agitated General Manager named Rick Hunt. I cooly work out figures on a yellow legal tablet.

"Fourteen million dollars?" He gasps.

"Easy now Mr. Hunt," I say to him, "we can spread these numbers over five years..."

You know those photos where the player holds up his team jersey and poses with the owner? Well that's me on the left, who's always partly cut out of the photo.

Inside this building is where I work. Sports Management International. See, us SMI agents can be pretty fierce. Thirty-three,out of shape agents guiding the careers of 2,120 of the most finely-tuned athletes alive. In this economy, sometimes emotions run a little high.

Last week one of my clients, huge offensive lineman, Bobby "BAJA" Brunard, was arrested. No one really knows what he did but all we can prove is that he's a sensational athlete.

"Listen Logan," Rick Hunt says to me, "I don't think I can afford that right now."

"Alright," I say, "Here's my card. Give me a call if you change your mind." I hand him my card and walk over to sit next to 27 year-old basketball player, Calvin Nack.

"Calvin!" I greet, and extend my hand for him to shake, "How are you, man?"

"Logan, it's so good to see you," he says, shaking my hand. "I'm doing alright, and you?"

"I'm good." I respond and smile at him.

A young boy walks over to us and hands Calvin a sports card to sign.

"Are you Calvin Nack? Could you sign my card?" The little kid asks.

"Sorry little buddy, I can't sign that particular brand of card. I can only sign Pro-Jam Blue Dot cards." Calvin tells the little boy.

The boy looks at Calvin with a confused look on his face and walks away.

Lately, things have gotten worse...

Last week one of my clients, hockey player Steve Remo, got a concussion and had to go to the hospital.

While I was walking out of the hospital his 11 year old son followed behind me.

"Mr. Mitchell?" The boy asked.

"Yes?"

"This is his fourth concussion, shouldn't somebody get him to stop" His son asked me.

"Come on - it'd take a tank to stop your dad. It would take all five Super Trooper VR Warriors, right?" I told him.

The kid just stared at me. It felt as if the kid was peering into my soul... and all he saw was trash.

"Right?" I asked again.

He scoffed. "Fuck you."

My eyes widened and I stared at the boy in awe.

The kid turned around and strutted down the hospital hallway.

Now that, threw me off.

Two nights later in Miami corporate conference, a breakthrough. Breakdown? Breakthrough.

I lay sound asleep in bed until my eyes open. Breathing strangely. Trembling, I hold onto the nightstand for grounding.

I get up, take a few gulps of air, and walk to the mini-bar in my hotel room. I gather some tiny ice cubes in my hand, and smear them across my sweaty face to cool my self down. This feeling was new to me.

It was the oddest, most unexpected thing. I began writing what they call a Mission Statement for my company. You know - a Mission Statement - a suggestion for the future.

I sit at the computer and begin writing. The words just flow out of me. I don't think I've ever written this much in my life before. What started out as one page became twenty-five. Suddenly I was my father's son again. I was remembering the simple pleasures of this job, how I ended up here out of law school, the way a stadium sounds when one of my players performs well on the field. I was remembering even the words of the late Dicky Fox, the original sports agent, who said: The key to this job is personal relationship.

And suddenly it was all pretty clear. The answer was fewer clients. Caring for them, caring for ourselves, and the games too. Starting our lives, really.

Hey, I'll be the first to admit it. What I was writing was somewhat "touchy feely." I didn't care. I had lost the ability to bullshit. It was the me I'd always wanted to be. The me that my father would be truly proud of.

I print all twenty-five pages and take them to the copying store. I stand in front of the counter, still in my pajamas. The worker slides me one of the copies across the counter with a approving smile on his face. I take it off of counter and stare at it, proudly. I titled it "The Things We Think and Do Not Say. (The Future of our Business)."

"That's how you become great, man. You hang your balls out there." The collage aged worker tells me.

Its 3 AM, and this guy sounds and looks like a prophet. Well, everyone in this store at 3 AM does.

"Thanks," I say, and nod.

The next morning I wake up with sense of urgency. I feel worried about people reading my Mission Statement.

I walk over to the desk in my hotel room that had the computer and telephone on it and sit down. I grab the phone and call SMI.

"Hi, it's Logan Mitchell. Did those uh... manuscripts get sent out?" I ask the women on the other end of the phone.

"The Mission Statement? Yes they did." She told me.

"Oh they did..."

"Is that alright?" She asks me.

"Oh yeah, it's fine." I say to her. I wasn't lying but I also wasn't telling the truth. I slightly regret making the Mission Statement...

I took of my pajamas and change into a nice suit. I walk into the bathroom and put gel in my hair, styling it perfectly. My skin look paler then usual and my brown eyes looked more golden today.

I pack up all my clothes and put them in my suit case. My flight takes off in 3 hours.

Next thing I knew I was in the elevator alone with my luggage. My clammy hands hold onto the handrail to steady.

The elevator comes to a stop and I step out of it and into the hotel lobby. The lobby is filled with SMI agents. The blue Mission Statement is in evidence everywhere. I inconspicuously turn the corner, yearning to blend in. It's impossible, the recognition ripples through the lobby. Underling agent Bob Sugar is the first to grab me by the shoulders.

Bob and I had been friends ever since he joined SMI, two years ago. He looked up to me and I helped him out with agent stuff. We had a bit of a friendly competition going on with who has more clients but nothing serious.

"Finally, someone said it!" I hear someone yell and start clapping.

I sighed and scanned the lobby. I saw a short brunette holding a young boys hand and reading my Mission Statement. Her names Casey Floyd. Yeah, like Pink Floyd. She works in my building as an accountant. I've never really noticed her before...

Suddenly another agent begins to clap, then reluctantly, another. Soon, the ovation rocks the lobby. I motion for them all to stop, but I could listen forever. It is a total watershed moment in my life.

I smile at everyone. I couldn't believe they all like it so much. I knew it was good but I didn't know it was this amazing.

I was 32 and I had started my life.

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: ****So this is a take-off on the movie Jerry Maguire. I really recommend you watch it. Its pretty amazing (as is Tom Cruise.) Well, I hope you liked it. I apologize for how short this first chapter is. This chapter was much more of an introduction to the story.)**


End file.
